


the hand is a voice that can sing what the voice will not

by writevale



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Body Paint, Cecil needs a paintbrush to cope with life, Character Study, Happy Ending, M/M, Marking, Smut, Trans Carlos, Trans Male Character, and that's okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:46:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21886900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writevale/pseuds/writevale
Summary: Cecil doesn't really understand how, but the painting helps.-A series of vignettes that smell of turpentine.
Relationships: Carlos/Cecil Palmer
Comments: 5
Kudos: 68





	the hand is a voice that can sing what the voice will not

**Author's Note:**

> Title from The Language of the Birds by Richard Siken (of course).  
> A million, million thank yous to [treeprince](https://archiveofourown.org/users/treeprince) for beta-ing this and saving my British ass from further linguistic embarrassments.

The light filtering in through the window has a sickly feel to it. Outside, the sky is a vast milky blue, like the cataract-hazed pupil of a great God. An old, blind God.

There's a fold-out table beneath the window, bent and stained from use, and the woman who sits there places a glass of amber liquid on top with a shaking hand. She stares into the untidy kitchen, sunken gaze flat and distant. Once - a long time ago - she might have been beautiful. But the junction between the blonde lengths of her hair and her salt and pepper roots is matted and greasy, there are deep lines around her eyes and mouth that speak of struggle even as she says nothing at all and a gaunt cloudiness to her expression that suggests she's looking, but she's not really _seeing_. She picks up her drink again. Sips.

Across from her is a flurry of movement. The quick, gentle _scritscritscritch_ of a pencil as it flies backwards and forwards across a piece of paper. It's being commandeered by a young boy, his tiny hand seemingly too small to be able to hold a pencil with such grace. Or to make it come alive in such a dead room. He hums softly as he draws, unaware that the tip of his tongue is protruding out of his mouth in concentration.

After a few more seconds, he stops. Puts down his pencil and rubs his face as though trying to dispel a great stress. The gesture is far too weary, far too mature for his seven years.

'Mother.' He tries, 'Mother, look.'

She shifts her gaze in his direction, no twist in the set of her lips to betray any affection. He holds up the drawing and her eyes slowly, slowly focus on it. His little head peeks around the side of the paper, violet eyes bright and hopeful.

'It's what I saw in the mirror!' He points to a viscous dripping in the corner of the paper, 'That's blood!'

She says nothing. Sips.

The door clicks open, letting more of that sad, pale light into the room. A tall girl, just barely into her teens, enters and drops a fluorescent bag emblazoned with NIGHT VALE DAILY JOURNAL on the floor. It lands with a metallic thunk.

'Cecil,' She whines in lieu of returning her little brother's enthusiastic greeting, 'Why aren't you ready for school?'

'I was drawing!' He waves the paper in his sister's direction, 'Look! This is what I saw in the mirror - it was really big and-'

'There isn't anything in the mirror.' Abby intones, leaning over to scoop up the absent woman's glass before marching over to the sink and upending it. The liquid makes a tiny splashing sound which is quickly lost under the growling of the faucet. 'Oh, for- Cecil! Did you eat the cereal straight out of the box again?'

There's a pause as the small boy considers his response. He's too young to realise that his guilt is already smeared across his face.

'She said I could.'

They both look at the woman at the table. She's staring out of the window now, neck twisted as though her eyes moved and the rest of her had no choice but to follow.

Abby raises an eyebrow sardonically. 'Get ready for school.'

The little boy huffs quietly before gently placing his drawing on the sticky, stained table in front of his mother.

Just in case.

******

Green paint splatters up his scout uniform, smears down to his wrists, flecks of it landing in his hair and forming crusty little clumps on his eyelashes. Cecil grits his teeth as he slaps more on the wall, right over where his face had been. At least, he had thought it was his face.

The mural had been the Scoutmaster's idea. Cecil couldn't really go home after scout training until Abby got back from work. Couldn't stay late at Earl Harlan's house _every_ night. So, he was offered this: a project. Paint a mural depicting the great work of the Night Vale chapter of the Boy Scouts of America. Stay out of trouble. Hope that your mother comes back soon.

The Scoutmaster had said that he could have his Depicting a Tragedy badge if he did a good job.

Cecil had thought he was doing a good job.

He steps back, itches at the drying paint on his forehead with equally dirty fingers and takes in his work. It starts with the pudgy form of a Cub Scout, standing on a burning car and fiddling with the end of his neckerchief. It's an adorable depiction of a metaphor that Cecil quite enjoys: each new scout stands on the burning car crash that is the shoulders of his predecessors.

As one tracks their eyes across the scene they see the scouts progress. Eagle Scouts trapped and screaming in the talons of great birds; Weird Scouts on a raft in the Sand Wastes while tentacles and articulating pincers wave and snap; the huge, unblinking eyes of the Dark Scouts; Eternal Scouts melting into invisibility as they warp around each other in an infinite loop.

The Blood Pact Scouts are an issue.

'It looks great, Cecil.' Earl had promised earlier, sincere and solemn as ever.

'Yeah?' Cecil had shrugged, unable to trust the warm glow in his stomach at the praise. Unable to allow himself to feel happiness just yet.

'You're - um - so impressive. With art. You know? Just-'

'What?' Cecil tore his eyes away from the clouds of pigment in the water he was using to clean his brushes to take in the pink flush to Earl's cheeks, the anxious clench in his jaw.

'Just - um - who am I shaking hands with?'

Cecil twisted back to the painting in shock. He'd thought it would be obvious.

Most days, he could feel Earl's concern rolling off him in waves. Earl had put up with a lot since Cecil's mother left (and before) and Cecil had wanted to do something to show his gratitude. So he'd painted them both as Blood Pact Scouts. Hands gripped tight together as they gazed a secret promise into each other's eyes. Equally impenetrable and relatable. It would be their legacy: Cecil Palmer and Earl Harlan were here and they were best friends.

If he was being perfectly honest with himself, Cecil felt that he had been quite kind to Earl. He'd squared off his jaw, made him a few inches taller, put something steely in his gaze that he wasn't entirely sure Earl was capable of.

And, sure. Sure. Cecil hadn't been able to look in a mirror for a good few years but _he knew what he looked like_.

'Uh, me?' He let the _duh_ hang heavy in his tone. _He knew what he looked like_.

'Apparently not.' Cecil mutters to himself in the silent hallway, reaching again for the green paint with which to cover up the figure Earl had laughed at (outright _laughed_ at). It's probably petty, painting himself into the cactus that Earl had taken the heart from during his Anguished Mezcal Maker badge. So what if he had accidentally given himself more muscle bulk or a smaller nose or _the wrong colour hair_? He'd purposefully made Earl look more attractive. Surely that was more embarrassing.

Cecil wipes his eyes, grateful for the twelfth night in a row that the Scout Building is always abandoned at this time. It occurs to him that the mural won't really be his legacy, the secret underneath the prickly and imposing cactus will.

His mother messed him up so much that he couldn't look at his own reflection. And then she left.

He stuffs one of the free corners of his neckerchief into his mouth and screams around it, burying his face into a paint splattered sleeve.

Cecil doesn’t really understand how, but the painting helps. He covers up the rest of his mistake just enough to be able to leave it until tomorrow night. At some point, his breathing steadies and the earlier technique of all but throwing the paint on the wall tightens into the precise and delicate strokes of a natural talent.

It's probably petty to paint Earl's cowlick in.

If Abby notices the vertical tracks of clean skin between the smudges of green paint on her brother's face she says nothing.

******

_Stupid, fucking Steve Carlsberg. Fucking unbelievable. Fuck you, Abby. Fuck. Fuck._

' _Fuck!_ ' Cecil hisses under his breath as the crayon he has been viciously using to colour in his copy of the Night Vale Mountain Lions logo snaps under the cramping force of his grip.

Janice gasps and giggles.

'Uncle Cecil, you swore.'

'Um, noo.' He feels his cheeks redden despite himself, looking up from the unbelievable waste of an afternoon he's having to meet the preternaturally knowing eyes of his niece. 'No, I didn't.'

'You did.'

He really doesn't want to gaslight a nine year old.

'Oh, fine. Yes. I did. I'm very sorry you had to hear that, please don't repeat it and please don't tell your mom. Uncle Cecil is very rude.' She nods at this and he smiles despite the coiled snake in the pit of his stomach. _Not as rude as your mother_ , he thinks, _the bitch_. When Abby had called him yesterday offering him the chance to look after Janice for a few hours he had jumped at the opportunity. Of course he had. Of course he would help Janice with her art homework. Of _course_ he would be sober. _Fucking unbelievable._ 'How's your bubble writing coming along?' He asks, voice as mild as he can manage.

It's . . . awful.

At least this way, looking at the malformed and shaky letters upside down, he can pretend that they don't spell out 'best dad'. As if each of them isn't an individual and perfect punch to his windpipe.

He can taste blood.

'. . . Uncle Cecil?'

'Hm? Sorry, honey? What's that?'

Janice's pale eyes are confused and worried. He hates that. 'Your lip is bleeding.'

'Oh!' He raises a hand to his mouth. One of his fingertips comes away with a spot of red. 'Oops! This is why it's really important to always use chapstick, so your lips don't get dry and crack. Don't worry, it's only a little bit!' Janice seems satisfied by this but Cecil wants to slam his head against a wall. How strange, to sit in a room with a child who has no idea that you're clinging onto the cliff-face of a complete breakdown. And that the only reason that you haven't fallen yet is because they're sitting on your hands.

He could really do with a drink.

He inhales deeply. Tries to think about the weight of his body on the chair in his apartment. He's here, with Janice, not leaning on the sticky surface of a bar or falling backwards into a bathroom stall with someone whose name he only knows because it's his job to.

The mountain lion looks up at him with its fanged smile. He had almost forgotten, with everything going on, that art was something he could do. He exhales. It could be worse. Abby could have sent Janice over with a pile of science homework. His scientific knowledge is tragic.

'So, what colour are the lion's shades, again?'

'My favourite colour!' Janice squirms excitedly, 'Pink!'

'I thought you said your favourite colour was yellow last week?'

'Uh, yeah. That was _last week_.'

'Ugh, _keep up_ , Uncle Cecil!' He mimics her voice and she giggles. The sound is like the shifting of hot sand, filling up some of the empty space inside him. Suffocating some of the flames of his rage.

Later that night, he drinks too much and orders an unwise amount of expensive art supplies online.

He'll use them, probably.

******

Coming here at all was a bad idea. Coming here with a stack of his own canvases was cataclysmically stupid.

Cecil is meant to be at the Night Vale Annual Art Show in a journalistic capacity. And he is. He is working. He's just . . . Having a break. Another one. Hidden behind the row of paintings he brought with him. With his hip flask.

The event is nice. A real mix of amateur and professional artists from all over town. Earlier, there was a poetry reading (at least, he thinks there was, it's also possible that the Sheriff's Secret Police just implanted the poetry in his brain on arrival). He is a little disappointed that none of the sculptures have come to life and tried to murder the occupants of the light and airy hall yet. That didn't happen at Dessert Bluffs' Art Extravaganza last week, either, and he just really thinks it would be the perfect thing to show that awful town how to host an art show.

There were definitely trays of canapés and wine going around earlier. But no one has come to Cecil's corner for quite a while now. He takes another sip of his drink.

He shouldn't have brought his paintings. At least, he shouldn't have brought the ones that are so clearly hate paintings, oil paint applied in thick, unforgiving strokes to create the scenes that, at best, look the way poking a bruise feels. He's worked so hard at keeping up a front to the rest of the community. The happy, friendly _, coping_ community radio host. To now spread this ugliness out behind him and wait for compliments? It’s probably for the best that people are avoiding him.

He breathes, rubs his face and slinks out from between the stands. His shoes make an obnoxious squeaking sound on the marble floor as he stops in shock. There is someone looking at his paintings. A young woman, masses of glossy black curls framing her face as she taps a finger on her lips in contemplation. A purple wristband against her dark skin identifies her as one of the Night Vale Community College Students. She smiles as she glances over at him and then back to the painting.

'Hi, I'm - um - Cecil.' He steps closer, just to see which of the paintings has so caught her attention. It's a view of Downtown Night Vale in the dark, all glittering lights made disorientating and tacky. It should be beautiful. It's not.

'Oh, I know who you are.' Her voice has an interesting cadence. Almost musical. 'I listen to your show.' This shouldn't surprise Cecil anymore. But he chokes on his words a little. 'I'm Dana.' She says to the painting. 'I like your art.'

'Thank you, Dana. It's nice to meet you.'

'I've never seen Downtown like this.' She tilts her head a little, curious. Cecil wets his lips. He doesn't think it's appropriate, somehow, to explain that it's the view you get when you've just vomited a mixture of cheap beer and come onto the sidewalk and you've forgotten the way back to your apartment.

'I hope you never do.' He says quietly. She looks at him again but there's no awkward pity there, just a small smile and the soothing aura that he finds he doesn't want to immediately back away from. Even though he suspects that he's not someone who particularly deserves the company of soothing people.

'I hope you don't mind me saying, Mr Palmer-'

'- Cecil, please.'

'Cecil.' She smiles wider, 'But there's so much emotion in all of these paintings.'

'Thanks.' He stares at her, considers asking her what she sees. Then the reality of being psychoanalysed by a college student hits and he balks. 'Do you paint?' He redirects.

'I -' Her smile turns a little sad, 'I'm trying to learn how to draw portraits.'

'Oh?'

'Mhm. There are people I want to commit to paper before it's too late.' Something in Cecil's stomach twists. 'And photos are great, but they don't capture the way you feel about someone. Not really.'

'No, I suppose not.' He thinks of the numerous portraits at home. The brief, poetic satisfaction he'd felt making a clean cut through the canvas of one particular family portrait with a scalpel.

'Do you have any portraits?' Dana asks.

'Oh, not here. I - I decided they should stay at home.' Dana nods, although she seems genuinely disappointed at this. 'I could,' Cecil starts, feeling incredibly arrogant and incredibly foolish, 'Show you? I mean, I have some paper, I could sketch you, talk you through my approach to it?' He regrets the offer as soon as he makes it. There are actual, professional artists in this room and he's meant to be _working_.

Dana's face lights up.

He half-interviews her as he draws, lulled into the closest thing he's been to relaxed in a very long time by her sweet voice and the soft scratch of the pencil in his sketchbook.

'Do you think the Secret Police will ban writing utensils?' She asks. Cecil chuckles.

'Sure, why not?' He glances down at his sketch and back up at her face, 'The most important thing, I think, is to exaggerate the parts of a person that particularly remind you of them as well as trying to catch the little details.' Dana nods slightly before carefully moving her head back into the position Cecil had told her to keep. She seems to be an excellent study. 'Hey, what are your plans for after college?'

'Oh, I'm not sure yet. My family have conflicting ideas about what kind of career would suit me best and I just don't know!'

Cecil hums, tending to the way the light lands on Dana's forehead and snakes down her jaw. 'There's an internship program at the Radio Station.' He comments, casually. 'You seem like you'd be perfect for it.'

'Thank you, Cecil.' The way she says it, with that melodious lilt of hers, sounds like the first verse of a song. She looks down at her hands, 'That means a lot.'

'I mean, you still have a long time to decide but -' He puts down his pencil and delicately tears the page out of his sketchbook, 'I think you'd be a great intern.'

'Tha-' Dana starts but falls silent. The hall erupts with screams as the sculptures _finally_ start to move.

******

The man in his study is trying to act casual but, from his place in the doorway, Cecil can see the bubbling excitement in the way he bounces up and down, bare toes curling on the rug, fingers twitching to touch _everything_ all at once. He curls his hand around a half-finished mug of black coffee and takes a bitter sip that does nothing to counteract the candied delight in Carlos' smile as he starts to methodically look through Cecil's paintings.

The scientist makes a high-pitched, stuttering squeak when he finds it. His white coat, the only item of clothing he'd put back on after that morning's escapades, swirls around his calves.

'Ceec!' Carlos bites his lip as he looks between his boyfriend and the painting.

'Uhuh?' Cecil keeps his voice deep and confident. He hopes Carlos likes it.

'Who is this?'

Cecil blinks. 'Bunny, it's you.' Carlos' body, naked, in different poses superimposed on one another. Here, see the curve of his ass, the silver slivers of scar tissue across his chest, the angle between the delicacy of his neck and the strong line of his jaw. He puts his coffee down and walks up behind his boyfriend, wraps his arms around his waist so they can take in the painting together. This close, Cecil can see all the mistakes, the lines that turned out a bit too thick, unbalancing the piece, the lighting that catches on Carlos' soft stomach and isn't _quite_ right. But he can ignore them for now, with the warmth of Carlos' body against him. The painting was never going to be as good as the real thing.

Carlos twists in his arms and reaches up on his tiptoes to press a kiss to the base of Cecil's bare throat. There's a slight pinkness to his cheeks that makes Cecil feel like growling, makes him feel like grabbing his paint to copy it down. So he can have it forever.

'It's, um – _hm!'_ Carlos clears his throat, inspecting the sparse, soft hair on Cecil's chest instead of baring himself to the radio host's predatory grin. 'Really, um, quite good. I mean, I don't think that I look, um, quite like _that_. But -' Cecil hides his smile in Carlos' thick, dark hair.

'I'm really glad you like it!'

'You did it all from memory?' There's a tilt to Carlos' words. Cecil imagines himself righting the plane of their conversation with a long, pale finger, before Carlos asks for something he'd actually hate.

'Do you really think you'd sit still long enough for me to paint you properly?' He feels the slow spread of Carlos' smile against his skin.

_It's a good compromise_ , Cecil supposes, dipping his brush gently into the thick, white paint. Being the good scientist that he always is, Carlos had hypothesised that the only thing better than painting Carlos naked was painting _on_ a naked Carlos. Cecil was always interested in engaging with science.

His canvas is laid back on the rug, glorious hair fanning out onto the labcoat he rests his head on, squirming slightly as Cecil runs a finger along his inner thigh, up to where the dark hair gives way to soft, pink skin. He gasps slightly as Cecil times the cold dab of his paintbrush with a purposeful swirl of his thumb. He smooths the paintbrush across Carlos' chest, the white of the paint standing out beautifully against his tanned skin. There's a soft, disappointed whimper in the quiet of the room as Cecil's left hand stills while he tries to get the line he's painting _just right_. Carlos rocks his hips gently, seeking out that gentle friction again but obediently keeps his torso still.

The scientist giggles, the sound incongruent with his earlier moans and quiet, frustrated huffs. Cecil looks up from the white lines on his chest to take in his huge pupils, the bright white of his teeth as Carlos grins despite himself.

'Carlos?' He asks, grinning a little himself as he starts to move his left hand again and Carlos sinks those perfect teeth into his bottom lip.

'Hng. You- you know you stick your tongue out when you're concentrating?'

Cecil processes this, feeling his cheeks heat up. A school-day memory of looking up from his runes in class to see that everyone was looking at him, the tips of their tongues protruding out from faces lit with a mixture of cruelty and genuine amusement.

'Carlos, perfect, Carlos.' He uses his radio-voice, dreamy and besotted, then pitches it right down, throwing as much sex into the rasp of it as he can. 'You're not really acting like someone who wants to come.' He starts to move his hand away - as if he's ever denied Carlos anything - and his wrist is caught. Held. Pushed back.

'No, no, no, no, be nice. You're just so - ah - adorable!' Carlos pleads, 'Ceec -!'

Heart hammering, he daubs more paint onto the brush, staring down at Carlo's chest. The thought of painting onto Carlos' body had honestly never occurred to Cecil before. But the minute his fingers met the smooth wood of the paintbrush, he knew exactly what he was going to paint. A mountain range. Steadfast and beautiful and _imaginary_. On the body of a man whose existence and perfection Cecil struggles to believe.

It suits him. The sharp lines of the paint fall in opposition to the fluidity of Carlos' body as he tries not to shift under Cecil's hands. Later, Carlos will tell him that the mountain range is much more in keeping with the stuttering trace of a heartbeat than the tidal, sine curve of breathing. Cecil will like that.

Carlos curses as Cecil loses track of his left hand again in favour of bringing the ragged stone cliffs of one of the peaks to life. It brings him back to himself and he immediately compensates by slicking up one of his fingers in the wetness at Carlos' entrance.

'Yes.' Carlos hisses before he even has to ask.

'Oh, yeah?' Cecil smirks, playing at being cool and unaffected even though he knows Carlos has been staring at the growing bulge in his boxers for the last fifteen minutes. Carlos nods, bites his lip around a hum.

The sound Carlos makes as Cecil curls a finger into him is like a strung-out version of the word 'God'. With all the consonants removed. _I love you_. Cecil thinks with each stroke of his paintbrush. _I'll paint it onto your skin, I love you, I love you._ He dips his head to press a kiss to a clean section of Carlos' chest.

'Do you want more?' He murmurs, brushing his lips against Carlos' collarbone.

'Uhuh.' Carlos nods, mouth hanging open. He keens as Cecil pushes another finger into the wet heat of him. 'More, please _, fuck_!'

Cecil's hand shakes slightly as he loads more paint onto the brush. Because isn't that just it? Carlos the scientist, rolling into his life and taking all of Cecil, all the chivalry and the flirtation and the constant care; all the late night phone calls in tears and cigarette after cigarette (each one, Cecil swears, is the last one) and that time he got too drunk and insisted that Carlos didn't love him as much as he loved Carlos. Carlos the scientist, who can look deep into the soul of his hate paintings and feels no need to varnish them with fake compliments, to try and find something beautiful in their coiling despair. He takes everything of Cecil's that shines and coaxes out all the parts of him that skulk away from the light. And, after all that, he asks for _more_.

Carlos' breaths come in short, arrhythmic gasps, making it impossible to make a clean line on his chest. They meet eyes as Cecil sets his brush down gently and a frisson of electric heat jolts down into Cecil's cock. He moves so his face is inches above Carlos', careful to keep a gap between his body and the wet paint on Carlos' chest. He thinks Carlos might actually explode if he insists on stopping to correct an errant smudge.

'Is that good?' He asks against Carlos' lips. Kisses them. Then moves round to whisper directly in his ear, 'You're so beautiful. I love you so much.'

'Ah -!' Is all Carlos manages as Cecil moves downwards, mouth coming to rest on a spot just above the painted mountain ridge. An idea comes to him as he curls his hand round to stroke Carlos' clit in time with the thrusts of his fingers. A stroke of artistic intuition he feels obliged to follow through. He bites. 'Ah, _ah!_ Baby!' Carlos' cries melt into a long, strangled moan as his hips buck and his back arches as he comes. His fingers clench and unclench in Cecil's hair, nails dragging deliciously against his scalp, as though Carlos can't decide whether to pull him off or push him to bite harder.

A clumsy hand pushes down Cecil's underwear, Carlos' calloused fingers coming to wrap around Cecil's erection. He barely needs four - five - strokes before he's growling through his own orgasm, having scarcely noticed how aroused he was when focused on the painting.

Cecil lifts his head to take in the view. Carlos' wild hair; the delicate, shell-shocked expression on his face as he shakes; the barely-smudged mountain range on his chest, lit by a vibrant, reddish-purple sun.

His finished piece.

******

_This Tuesday is the fornightly Burn Your Regrets night at the Abandoned Missile Silo. Bring down all the items in your home that ripple with the aftershocks of past emotional pain and throw them into the flames. Residents from all over town will be congregating to rid themselves of the physical reminders of the poor decisions made by someone they no longer recognise as themselves. So best to get there early to avoid being stuck at the back of a loooong queue with a large and embarrassing item that you don't really want the rest of the town to see._

_I, actually, will be there on Tuesday. With my boyfriend, Carlos. He's a scientist. I have a_ **_lot_ ** _of old artwork just lying around my apartment and we both agree that it's time . . . to let some of that go._

_I hope to see some of you there._

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, hope you all have a lovely festive period!


End file.
